The number stayed with her.

  Thirteen.

  Aira repeated it silently as she walked home that evening, sunlight stretching long and low across the streets. Thirteen days. Not enough time to disappear. Too much time to be noticed.

  At home, she sat at her desk with the window half-open, letting the breeze stir the curtains. The room glowed softly, bathed in gold. She should have closed the curtains. She usually did.

  Instead, she watched the light shift.

  She opened her notebook.

  This time, she didn’t stop herself.

  Ideas spilled out—measured, careful, restrained. A presentation that didn’t demand attention but invited it. Something people could walk into, not stare at. Light used not to expose, but to soften. To guide. To protect.

  A sanctuary, she realized.

  Her pen slowed.

  “Sunlight 13.”

  She wrote the words at the top of the page, then froze.

  The name felt dangerous. Naming something meant claiming it. Claiming it meant being seen.

  She almost crossed it out.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Almost.

  The next day, the class buzzed with nervous energy. Groups formed quickly, voices overlapping, ideas clashing. Aira sat still, listening, observing, already adjusting her plan to fit the reality in front of her.

  Someone spoke up. “We need a concept. Something memorable.”

  Another voice added, “Something bright.”

  Aira’s heart skipped.

  Ren glanced at her, just once.

  She lowered her gaze, but her notebook lay open.

  Someone noticed.

  “What’s that?” a student asked, leaning closer—not accusing, not mocking. Just curious.

  Aira’s mouth went dry.

  “It’s nothing,” she said automatically.

  Ren spoke before the moment collapsed.

  “It’s a framework,” he said calmly. “For the festival.”

  The teacher turned toward them. “Oh?”

  The room grew quiet.

  Aira felt the familiar pressure rise, tight and suffocating. Middle school memories pressed in—the stares, the whispers, the way admiration had twisted into resentment.

  If people don’t see me, they can’t hurt me.

  Her fingers trembled.

  But then—nothing happened.

  No laughter. No hostility.

  Only waiting.

  She swallowed. “…It’s just an idea,” she said softly. “We use light. Not to show off. Just to make people feel… comfortable.”

  The teacher smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”

  The class nodded. Someone murmured agreement.

  Aira stood frozen, heartbeat thunderous.

  They weren’t attacking.

  They weren’t pulling her apart.

  They were listening.

  Ren watched her carefully, saying nothing, letting the moment belong to her.

  The teacher clapped her hands lightly. “Let’s call it ‘Sunlight 13’ then. Thirteen days to make something warm.”

  The name settled into the room.

  Into her.

  That afternoon, as students discussed logistics and roles, Aira felt strangely detached, as if she were standing at the edge of her own life, watching herself step forward.

  Ren approached her quietly.

  “You didn’t disappear,” he said.

  “I almost did,” she replied.

  “But you didn’t.”

  She looked toward the window again. The light wasn’t harsh. It never had been.

  “…If it gets too bright,” she said, “I might step back.”

  Ren nodded. “That’s okay.”

  She hesitated. “You won’t stop me?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll just make sure you know you can come back.”

  For the first time, Aira smiled—small, uncertain, but real.